


Devourer

by scarecrowes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Obsession, One-Sided Relationship, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrowes/pseuds/scarecrowes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal visits, and hungers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devourer

**Author's Note:**

> Done for a prompt on the kinkmeme that was probably intended for a much lighter fill. Fixating Hannibal is the best Hannibal though, in my humble opinion...

Will answers the door and you can immediately tell that you’ve woken him. There’s none of the hazy alertness you saw him with in Minnesota - the most he’s given you is a dry shirt. And still, he reeks of cold sweat, dark curls tangled and damp, all of him braced tight at whatever bad dream your footfalls on his porch chased away.

The dogs bound out the minute he opens the door, mindless of his bare feet and your polished shoes. You knew he kept them (he told you, thoughtful boy) but there are eight, where he’d said six. You smile at the tumble of fur and pink tongues now rolling on his lawn, wondering if he lives here for the name, with his pack of strays. 

_Wolf’s Trap_. You’d nearly laughed. 

“Good morning, Will.” You brandish your thermos and careful stack of tupperware as a gift, not to be refused. “I do hope you’re hungry.” 

His tongue wets his lips thoughtfully, and he stares at the plastic and the edges of your fingernails instead of your face. 

“Uh. Come in.” Shuffling backward to make room for you in the doorway, stumbling over his manners. Strangely, you do not wholly mind his lack of tact. Instead you shoo him into a seat in his tiny (dog-smelling, spare, _disagreeable)_ kitchen, and begin setting out what you’ve brought. 

Will fidgets with the mug you slide close to his fingers, but you know well enough that it isn’t discomfort at your silence. He’s compartmentalizing, reeling the feeling hands of his mind in as best he can after waking so startled. 

You smile to see it. Control is one of many things you have in common. 

And perhaps, too, an appetite. He swallows the coffee you pour for him and you stare at the work of his throat. 

(He never notices. The price he must pay for refusing to meet eyes.) 

The hunger in you isn’t startling - hunger is, after all, everything you know. A connoisseur of it, and what strikes you now is not its presence but its _nature._

You do not want to kill Will Graham. 

(Oh, you do, but in the very visceral sense of wishing to hold all his ticking clockwork parts up to his eyes. Perhaps he’d recall Hobbs’ voice, then - _do you see?_ ) 

You want to own him. Or own, at least, the very root of him - the shiny bit of glass that reflects all the dark and _knows it._

You inspect the corded muscle of his upper arms and the sticky hug of his clothes. You wonder how long he could last before, like some specter of Ammit in judgement of the dead, you devour his heart.  

(Perhaps the thrill in it, the reason you flaunt yourself here is that he could - he _might_ eat yours.) 

You reach over him in cleaning up the plates and glasses, and your free hand skids with deliberation from the edge of his chair. The palm you rest firmly on the expanse of his back (too-warm, damp, tacky cotton and _oh, this will never do)_ earns you a wide eyed look that hits somewhere near your temple, not your eyes. Expectedly, he jerks away like you’ve burned him, all awkward noise and arching spine. Hates touch, loathes the invasion of the brittle glass fortress of his hunched shoulders from _anyone._ You aren’t any different. Not yet. 

But later.

“Apologies, dear Will. I was not thinking.” 

He doesn’t smile, but the twinge of his bared teeth is more than he’d give someone else. 

_Soon._


End file.
